


Oversight

by IanMuyrray



Series: Fersali [2]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-17 06:01:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15454920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IanMuyrray/pseuds/IanMuyrray
Summary: Fergus is a romantic at heart





	Oversight

Fergus was nervous. He paced restlessly around Marsali’s apartment, listening to the muffled white noise of her shower through the closed bathroom door.

Marsali had risen from bed, announcing a shower before they left to get supper. While he watched her pick a blouse and skirt from her closet, silken strands of her blonde hair turning gold in the orange glow of sunset, he felt reality dawning on him.  

Last night, she had been seated in the section where he waited tables. The moment he saw her, he knew. She was the one. She was a stranger to him, but he knew. Work be damned, he clocked out and followed her as she left, an invisible cord connecting them. Where she went, he would follow.

He had dressed, made sure the bathroom door latched behind her. Breathing deep, he was thankful for the temporary barrier between them, the chance to re-center himself. She clouded his judgment and disoriented him, pulled him towards her with an unstoppable force, led him towards something larger than himself. She felt it, too. Or, at least, he thought she did.

His thoughts drifted to the night before, when they fucked in the alleyway behind the pub. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. He never thought the moment he would meet the one was the same moment he had shared with so many others, sex for the sake of sex, rather than as the crescendo of a deeper connection.

He was no stranger to casual sex; he often brought someone to his home after a night of drinking. But this wasn’t his home. He saw framed photos of people he didn’t know, light switches he didn’t feel comfortable controlling, had no idea what food was in the fridge or how to find plates and silverware. He had invited himself here and didn’t know her or her life and god he had fucked this up.

Fergus came to a stop and leaned against a counter in the kitchen, her kitchen. It was airy and light, with white cabinetry and white flooring, not a stain or dirty dish in sight. He tugged on his hair then pressed the heels of his palm against his eyes, wondering how the hell he was going start over, to do this right.

He couldn’t escape that he hadn’t waited, that he had taken what he wanted right away. He thought about what it should have been like, the two of them sharing something gentle and unique, becoming something more than the sum of their parts as they made love. But last night - and even today - just felt like fucking. Slamming, grunting, scratching, moaning, fucking.

There was a part of him that knew it was more than that; there was a subtle difference in the sex, the way he had wanted to lay with her afterward, run a hand through her hair, talk to her. He didn’t feel an urge to leave; he wanted to stay. He wanted more, and wanting more wasn’t something he was used to.

This shift in feeling overwhelmed him the first time, a knot in his chest as he walked her home. So he chose to leave when she had invited him upstairs. But as he left, her perfume wafted up from the collar of his work uniform, and he noticed a smudge of her makeup on the white sleeve of his shoulder when he got home. Stamps from their tryst in the alleyway, simultaneously exciting and unsettling.

The next morning, he came back to her. Of course he did. A couple bus rides and a short walk later, he found himself at her door, breakfast in hand. A shabby excuse. Now here he was, hours later, stricken with dread. He worried that he was treating her just like the others, just another body in just another bed. He worried that he was fucking this up.

“Fergus? Everything okay?”

He turned and there she was, barefoot, wrapped in a towel, her hair damp and tousled, her skin pink from scrubbing under hot water. He hadn’t heard the shower turn off.

“Of course, chérie, why would you think otherwise?”

She frowned at him, blue eyes wary. “Ye look weird is all.”

“Weird?”

“Ye look sorry.” She fidgeted with the blue towel at her breasts, tightening its twist so she didn’t have to hold it up.

He shrugged. “I’m certainly not sorry.”

“Hm,” she hummed, looking him up and down. She clenched her jaw. “Ye’re leaving, though?”

“Non, ” he said, gripping the counter behind him, “Of course not!”

She lifted her chin. “Dinna pretend, just go, then. Ye’re only sorry ye got caught.”  

“Marsali, please,” he said, reaching for her, unable to resist how he gravitated towards her. His fingers grazed her own, slowly curving their way up her arms, coming to rest on her shoulders. Touch soothed them both, tension evaporating like steam from their skin. “I’m not sorry, and I’m not leaving.”

“Thank goodness,” she confessed in a whisper. “I dinna know what I’d do if ye left.”

He chuckled, pressed his forehead to hers. She was lovely, her fresh face and toweled body different from the black dress she had worn the night before, but still just as irresistible. He closed his eyes and inhaled her sweet, clean scent.

They stood there, quiet a moment, until Marsali ventured, “What were ye thinking about?”

“Hm?”

“Just now. Ye did look wild-eyed.”

Fergus opened his eyes, his hands trailing back down her arms to grasp her hands. “I was thinking about you, ma p’tite.”

“Mm-hm. About me what?”

He mumbled something at her, not really wanted to admit it.

“I canna understand ye when you mumble.”

“I said—I was worried I screwed this up.” His shoulders slumped, his hands tightened on hers.

“Screwed it up? The only thing getting screwed was me.” She laughed, but he only looked at her. “What now?”

“I worry I did this wrong, is all,” he muttered, speaking slowly.

“God, you’re being melodramatic.” She tried to jerk away, but he gathered her to him. With a chuckle, her arms came around him, her face pressed into his chest.

“I messed up,” he said, her hair damp against his chin. “I didn’t mean to… insult you.”

“Insult me?” her head tilted back to smirk at him. “I get stood up by someone else and ye think you are the one who insulted me.” She rolled her eyes.

He laughed and squeezed her in his embrace, making her squeal as her ribs creaked. “Okay, so I didn’t insult you, then.” He pressed a kiss on her hairline, then shifted on his feet, looking at her imploringly. “Marsali.” She smiled at him, loving the sound of her name in his accent. “I did mess up, though.”

“Hm. How so?”

He shook his head, his fingers pressing into her sides through the terry cloth of towel, and took a deep breath. “Well, we kind of did things backwards.”

She looked at him quizzically before her face broke into a grin. “We did so once. Want to again?”

“Ma chérie,” he replied, eyes going wide. “that is not what I mean.” Brushing some hair behind her ear, he spoke softly, gently. “I mean, I should have asked you for your number like a normal guy instead of cornering you on the street.”

She made a face at him. “Ye’re no’ serious.”

He frowned. “I am.”

“Tch, Fergus, please. I wanted to sleep with you the moment I saw you. And now,” she kissed his neck, “that we have that out of the way—we are compatible, wouldn’t you agree?”

He squinted down at her. “This doesn’t feel like romance, though.”

She hummed, her lips vibrating where his neck met his shoulder. “Just because it doesna feel like romance doesna mean it isn’t romance.”

“What do you mean?”

She sighed with exasperation, leaning back an inch or two to meet his eyes. “It was tender. Ye responded to me in the way I needed. This is,” she said, rubbing against him again, “exactly what I want and need, and don’t ye dare question it.”

“Hmph,” he huffed. “If you say so.”

“Oh, I say so.” She stood on tiptoe to nip at his ear lobe.

“You’re not going to ask about me?” he demanded after a moment.

“Hm?” came her voice, muffled against his jaw.

“I need romance. Maybe I need it my way.”

She drew back, eyeing him. “Oh, ye do?”

He nodded.

“Did you ever think ye need to rethink what romance is?” Her hands wandered down to the button of his fly.

“Marsali, wait—” he pushed her away from him, holding her at arm’s length.

 

“What, Fergus? Can ye not see what I’m doing?”

“No, I can,” he assured her. “But…” he trailed off, his mouth downturned, then pressed on. “Can we try something?”

She gave him a satisfied look, her lips parting with her smirk. “Like what?”

Her towel had loosened in their embrace, and if he pressed himself against her again, he was certain it would fall open. He took a breath. “Can we try a first kiss?”

She looked at him skeptically. “You have kissed me plenty, and then some. We’re quite past that.”

He sighed. “I know. But.” He shrugged, speaking quickly as he saw her mouth fall open expectantly. “Marsali. Our first kiss wasn’t a first kiss and you know it. If I could, I would do it a little differently.”

“You are so needy,” she chuckled, but grabbed his face between her hands. She looked intently into his eyes, her own darting back and forth between his. “Is now okay?” she breathed. Her hands were cool and smooth against his cheeks, her eyes dark, pupils dilated.

Nodding, he leaned down to her. He stopped at the last second, just before his mouth touched hers, soaking her in. He closed his eyes as he took a moment to enjoy her closeness and the feel of her hands on his face, his pulse racing.

“Ye going to do it or what?” her voice cut through his thoughts, playful in its irritation.

He grinned wide and kissed her, holding her tightly against him. Her towel fell open, trapped between their bodies. They had kissed before, of course—in the heat of the moment, in the alley, in the impatient swirl of newfound desire. But he hadn’t kissed her-kissed her, or kissed her for the sake of kissing her, for the enjoyment, the simple connection. It was everything he wanted his first kiss with the one to be. Soft and slow. Tender. Nervous. Warm and sweet.

She swayed in his arms, and he reached to wrap her fallen towel around her. He pressed his mouth to hers, again, again.

“Mm,” she breathed, arcing into him, her body pliant and flushed.

 

He brushed a kiss against her nose and stepped back. “Go get dressed.”

 


End file.
